Confirmed perpetual

>>>>++<<<<

R e i g n i n g   F i r e

Elmwood Cemetery

Charlotte, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

'Twas awkward, but it fitted me --

An Ancient fashioned Heart --

Its only lore -- its Steadfastness --

In Change -- unerudite --

It only moved as do the Suns --

For merit of Return --

Or Birds -- confirmed perpetual

By Alternating Zone --

I only have it not Tonight

In its established place --

For technicality of Death --

Omitted in the Lease --

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Saturday

Into the great silence

>>>>++<<<<

L e a n   Y e a r s

Old Brick Church Cemetery

Jenkinsville, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

I wonder
how it would be here with you,
where the wind
that has shaken off its dust in low valleys
touches one cleanly,
as with a new-washed hand,
and pain
is as the remote hunger of droning things,
and anger
but a little silence
sinking into the great silence.

> Lola Ridge <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Friday

So hear the solemn hymn

>>>>++<<<<

B r e a t h e   E a s y

Elmwood Cemetery

Charlotte, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

With what a glory comes and goes the year!
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life’s newness, and earth’s garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves; the purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings;
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

O what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.

> Henry Wadsworth Longfellow <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Thursday

Whose only book has been the light

>>>>++<<<<

P e t a l   D r o p

Oakdale Cemetery

Wilmington, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

O Thou whose face hath felt the Winter’s wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops ’mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phœbus was away,
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At the thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.

> John Keats <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Wednesday

Let me hear every perfect note

>>>>++<<<<

T w i g g i n g   O u t

Monongahela River at Fort Pitt Bridge

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

>>>>++<<<<

Love gives all its reasons

as if they were terms for peace.

Love is this but not that

that but not this.

Love as it always was.

But there is no peace in the mountain

cleft where the fruit bats scatter

from the light.

There is no peace in the hollow when

the heat snuffs night's blue candle.

The outline of brown leaves on

the beach is the wind's body.

A crow is squawking at the sun

as if the screech itself is dawn.

Let me hear every perfect note.

How I loved that jasper morning.

> Jonathan Wells <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Tuesday

Hearts that have lost their own

>>>>++<<<<

Y o u   R e d   T h a t   R i g h t

Olivette

Asheville, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching Mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.

On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.

On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.

Possess, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.

For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger’s feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no.

> A. E. Housman <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday

Nothing in the world I see

>>>>++<<<<

H e a r t f e l t

Mount Auburn Cemetery

Boston, Massachusetts

>>>>++<<<<

Here is love vast as the ocean

Loving-kindness as the flood

When the Prince of Life our Ransom

Shed for us His precious blood

Who His love will not remember

Who can cease to sing His praise

He can never be forgotten

Throughout heav'n's eternal days.

On the mount of crucifixion

Fountains opened deep and wide

Through the floodgates of God's mercy

Flowed a vast and gracious tide

Grace and love like mighty rivers

Poured incessant from above

And heav'n's peace and perfect justice

Kissed a guilty world in love.

Let me all Thy love accepting

Love Thee ever all my days

Let me seek Thy kingdom only

And my life be to Thy praise

Thou alone shalt be my glory

Nothing in the world I see

Thou hast cleansed and sanctified me

Thou Thyself hast set me free.

In Thy truth Thou dost direct me

By Thy Spirit through Thy Word

And Thy grace my need is meeting

As I trust in Thee my Lord

Of Thy fullness Thou art pouring

Thy great love and pow'r on me

Without measure, full and boundless

Drawing out my heart to Thee.

> William Rees <

>>>>++<<<<

For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels,

nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,

Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature,

shall be able to separate us from the love of God,

which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

> Romans 8:39-39 <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Sunday

Truth is good health

>>>>++<<<<

J u s t   L e t   M e   R e s t   A w h i l e

Elmwood Cemetery

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

A Counterfeit -- a Plated Person --

I would not be --

Whatever strata of Iniquity

My Nature underlie --

Truth is good Health -- and Safety, and the Sky.

How meagre, what an Exile -- is a Lie,

And Vocal -- when we die --

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Saturday

What the small day cannot hold

>>>>++<<<<

I   S a y   Y e l l o w   Y o u   S a y   G o o d b y e

Monongahela River at Fort Pitt Bridge

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

>>>>++<<<<

Let's go our old way

by the stream, and kick the leaves

as we always did, to make

the rhythm of breaking waves.

This day draws no breath --

shows no colour anywhere

except for the leaves -- in their death

brilliant as never before.

Yellow of Brimstone Butterfly,

brown of Oak Eggar Moth --

you'd say. And I'd be wondering why

a summer never seems lost

if two have been together

witnessing the variousness of light,

and the same two in lustreless November

enter the year's night ...

The slow-worm stream -- how still!

Above that spider's unguarded door,

look -- dull pearls ... Time's full,

brimming, can hold no more.

Next moment (we well know,

my darling, you and I)

what the small day cannot hold

must spill into eternity.

So perhaps we should move cat-soft

meanwhile, and leave everything unsaid,

until no shadow of risk can be left

of disturbing the scatheless dead.

Ah, but you were always leaf-light.

And you so seldom talk

as we go. But there at my side

through the bright leaves you walk.

And yet -- touch my hand

that I may be quite without fear,

for it seems as if a mist descends,

and the leaves where you walk do not stir.

> Frances Bellerby <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Friday

Nothing left but fool's gold

>>>>++<<<<

B e h i n d   t h e   S c e n e s

Point State Park

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

>>>>++<<<<

Show's over, folks. And didn't October do
A bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated cries
Of migrating geese, low-floating coral moon.

Nothing left but fool's gold in the trees.
Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage,
While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The bees

Have up and quit their last-ditch flights of forage
And gone to shiver in their winter clusters.
Field mice hit the barns, big squirrels gorge

On busted chestnuts. A sky like hardened plaster
Hovers. The pasty river, its next of kin,
Coughs up reed grass fat as feather dusters.

Even the swarms of kids have given in
To winter's big excuse, boxed-in allure:
TVs ricochet light behind pulled curtains.

The days throw up a closed sign around four.
The hapless customer who'd wanted something
Arrives to find lights out, a bolted door.

> Maggie Dietz <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Thursday